


The Beat, Part I

by SnicketyLemon



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Drunkenness, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnicketyLemon/pseuds/SnicketyLemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The weirdest thing happened the other day. Some guy with two-toned hair came in and was acting kinda weird; when he came back a few days later, I found myself being dragged along for an unforgettable night. Sure, he was still a little weird, but my, how quickly things change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beat, Part I

The Beat  
Part I

A nervous smile crossed my face as I looked at the line of customers shuffling their feet, arms crossed and fingers tapping.

“May I make a suggestion, sir?” I asked in a last-ditch effort to speed things along.

The young man opened his mouth and then closed it again, fingers drumming rhythmically on the countertop as he scrutinized the menu boards behind me.

“Sure,” he said slowly, his eyes falling down to me. “Just no whipped cream or chocolate sauce on top, and if it’s gotta have milk, make it soy.”

“Then I recommend the vegan mocha latte,” I sighed, reaching for a pen to scribble out the order on the side of the cup.

“Is it minty?”

My hands drooped toward the counter.

“No, sir,” I sighed. “But I can add a shot of peppermint syrup if you’d like.”

“Why not?” he said, shrugging his shoulders and pulling out his wallet. “I’ll take a large. How much?”

I punched some number on the register and finally wrote out his order on the cup, passing it to my co-worker.

“Four dollars and thirty-seven cents,” I said. The young man handed me his card and I swiped it across the top of the register, handing it back to him. I didn’t bother to ask if he wanted a receipt—I just wanted the line moving.

“Thanks,” he said, stepping to the side as the next customer came forward, visibly irritated about the lengthy wait.

The next few orders flew by as the line dwindled, my co-worker and I pumping out various caffeinated beverages as fast as humanly possible until the last customer left sipping contently on a low-fat green tea smoothie, her Uggs tapping along the tile floor.

Sighing, I turned around and leaned against the counter, wiping my brow with the back of my hand.

“That was fucking intense!”

My co-worker, Ymir, stood smugly in front of a row of coffee pots and syrup bottles, rubbing her hands together in triumph.

“When’s the last time we got that many orders at once?” I asked.

“Whenever that sorority group came in for their fundraiser thing,” she replied, chuckling to herself. “God…so cute, but so stupid.”

I let out a short laugh and stepped over to the sink to wash my hands.

“Excuse me?”

I turned around and saw the young man from before standing at the counter, a half-empty cup in his hand.

“Yes, sir?” I said, silently cursing myself—there’s probably something wrong with his drink.

“What did you call this again?”

I blinked a couple times and then glanced at the messy handwriting on the cup.

“Uh, the vegan mocha latte.”

Nodding, he took another long sip and then wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

“I’m sorry for holding up the line,” he mumbled, tripping over his words.

“It’s okay, sir,” I replied with a confused smile, drying off my hands and stepping over to him. “We know there’s quite a bit to choose from up there,” I said, throwing my thumb at the boards behind me.

He nodded again. “Yeah, I’m just really indecisive and this is the first time I’ve been here, so…”

“Ah, well I hope you enjoyed your drink.” My smile turned more genuine—at least as genuine as a rehearsed food-service employee smile can be, anyway.

“I did,” he smiled. Clearing his throat, he took another sip of his drink and turned away. “Anyway, have a good day.”

“You too, sir, come back again.”

Another nod and he was on his way out the door, his pants legs shuffling against one another with each step.

“Well, that was weird,” Ymir said, stepping over to me.

“I’ve seen weirder.”

“Really?” she said.

“Mmm-hmm,” I grinned. “I’ll tell you about it after shift ends, man the front for me while I go check our inventory.”

Ymir grunted in response, stepping over to the register as I slipped into the back room.

The rest of the day passed without any other strange occurrences: no weird patrons, no machine malfunctions, not even so much as a spilt drink.

And the day after that, the same.

And the next day, the same.

Friday was, of course, hectic: students rushed in from the nearby campus to fuel up before forcing themselves to sit through just one more day of class; busy executives downed piping hot black coffee like children devour Halloween candy; and, as evening came, the party-goers stopped by to wake themselves back up for a few hours of inebriated shenanigans.

Thirty minutes until close, I heard the bell above the door chime and footsteps shuffled over to the counter.

“Good evening,” I said, turning to face the customer: it was the young man from a few days earlier, recognizable by his two-toned hair and pierced eyebrows. “Ah, welcome back!”

“Thanks,” he said, giving a meek smile. “Um, I’ll have the same as last time, the vegan…”

“…vegan mocha latte with a shot of peppermint syrup,” I finished. “Coming right up.”

Again, I took his card and swiped it before moving to the counter behind me to prepare the drink (Ymir had clocked out early to head home, leaving me to handle the few stragglers before closing up).

“You have a good memory,” the young man said as I craned my neck to peek at him.

“I remember the weirdest things,” I replied, tossing in the soy milk and giving the drink a quick stir. “I remember that my roommate put two squirts of mustard on his hot dog last Tuesday instead of his usual three; I remember my Ancient Greek History professor saying that his wife had blonde hair but almost constantly kept it dyed red.” After adding the shot of syrup, I snap a lip onto the cup and return to the young man, handing him the drink. “And I remember that those are the same pants that you wore last time you came in; by the way, there’s a hole on the back right pants leg.”

“I forgot to do laundry,” the young man mumbled, glaring down at his jeans.

“Don’t worry about it,” I laughed, placing my elbows on the counter. The young man looks back up at me and takes a sip of his drink. “Good?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“What’s your name?”

“Oh, uh, Jean,” he said, extending his free hand and shaking mine.

“Nice to meet you, John.”

“No, no,” he cut me off: “ _Jjjjaawn_. The same sound that’s in the middle of measure.”

“Ah, got it,” I smiled. “Jean.”

“Better,” he grinned. “It’s French, not many people can pronounce it.”

“Well, mine’s simple,” I said. “I’m Marco.”

“Nice to meet you, Marco,” he nodded.

“Are you a university student?” I asked, attempting to strike up a conversation to pass the time.

“I used to be,” he said. “I graduated last Spring.”

“What did you study?”

“Computer science,” he said. “I’m working at an independent gaming firm here in town until I hear back from some bigger companies.”

“Well good luck,” I smiled.

“What about you?”

“I’m taking some time off before heading to grad school.”

“For what?”

“I don’t really know,” I replied, tapping my fingers on the counter. “That’s what this break is for, I suppose.”

The young man gave a weak grin and nodded, continuing to sip on his drink. He brought his sleeve up to wipe his mouth—a habit for him, I guess—and then opened his mouth to speak before snapping it shut.

“What?” I asked, chuckling softly at his now pensive expression.

“When do you get off work?”

I looked up at the clock on the wall: it read 7:47pm.

“Thirteen minutes,” I said. “Then I gotta close.”

“How long does that take?”

“I just gotta clean up a few things, it’s slowed down quite a bit so it shouldn’t take too long.” I turned my gaze back to the young man, watching him finish off his drink as his eyes drifted off to the side. “Why?”

“Ah, well,” he said, wiping his mouth again, “I was wondering if you’d like to go to this gig with me at Blue’s Bar just down the road.”

I scratched the back of my neck and sat up.

“I don’t know, that’s not really my scene. My friends dragged me to a show like that once and I just felt out of place.”

“Well, this place is really chill. And…say, do you like jazz?”

“Yeah.”

“What about soft rock?”

I nodded, shrugging my shoulders. “I don’t dislike it.”

“I think this might suit you a bit more than you think,” he persisted. “Like I said, the bar is chill, there won’t be too many people there, and I’ll even buy you a drink and pay for your cover, if you want.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well,” he sighed, turning to toss his empty cup in the trash, “this is my friend’s band, and he’s really nervous. It’s their first time performing, and it would be nice if we could get a decent crowd of people there.”

My eyes darted back up to the clock: in a few minutes it would be time to close, and that would take about fifteen more minutes.

“What time does it start?”

“Nine,” he answered. “Will you come with me?”

I let out a slow breath and smirked, glancing back up at him.

“Sure.”

“Sweet!” he said, pounding his fists in the air. “I mean, er, thanks Marco.”

“No problem,” I chuckled. “Go have a seat somewhere and I’ll close up, then we can go.”

“Okay,” he nodded, his eyes bright and his attitude now strangely chipper.

I stepped around the counter and announced to the other two customers in the shop that we were about to close, and that they should pack up their belongings and head out shortly.

As they left, I slipped behind the counter and cleaned up—faster than usual, too. Perhaps I was feeling a little giddy to get out and do something on a Friday night instead of sitting at home with Netflix and a tub of ice cream.

“Do you want some help?” Jean asked as I began to wipe down the small tables in the seating area.

“Nah, I got it,” I said, sliding the wet rag quickly over the tables. “Thanks though.”

Jean smiled and nodded, pulling out his phone.

With the kitchen area and tables cleaned, I walked into the back room and clocked out, tossing my apron onto a small hook and rushing over to the 1950s-era high-school lockers on the back wall. I grabbed my hoodie and pulled it around my torso as I headed back out into the seating area.

“Okay, ready?”

“Yep,” Jean said, hopping out of one of the chairs.

I slid my hand along the row of switches next to the counter, the lights in the small shop flickering off as we made our way out the doors.

“Are you the manager or something?” Jean asked as I pulled the store keys from my pocket.

“Assistant manager,” I replied. “The real manager typically leaves at five, and from then on I’m in charge.”

“So does that mean you can let me in and make me a drink whenever I want?”

“What? Of course not,” I laughed.

“Damn,” Jean replied, snapping his fingers and kicking the ground, only half-serious it seemed.

“So where is this place?” I asked, following him down the narrow sidewalk.

“About a block or two east, it’s not that far,” he replied, rummaging through his jacket pockets for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Actually,” I said, tapping his arm before he had a chance to light the cigarette now snug between his lips. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t smoke. It really irritates me.”

Jean removed the cigarette and stuck it back into the package before stuffing that and the lighter into his jacket once again.

“I’ve been meaning to quit,” he said. “It’s just a habit for me, especially when I’m nervous.”

“Why are you nervous?”

“This gig,” he said. “I just hope it turns out alright.”

I just shrugged and kept pace with him, putting my hands into the large front pocket of my hoodie.

“I mean, they’ve rehearsed like a thousand times, and even though they sound great, my friend just can’t shake the feeling that something might go wrong.”

“I mean, something certainly could go wrong,” I stated. “Something could go wrong with the equipment, or the setup, or the electricity. It could be a tough crowd. There are plenty of things that could go wrong and screw everything up.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, laughing softly. “It isn’t. But, I think of it this way: if his band is really as good as he thinks it is—as you say they are—so long as they do their best, if something does go wrong at least they can say it wasn’t their fault. They were doing their best up there but, hey, maybe the place just couldn’t contain all that raw talent?”

“Dude, that’s so fucking corny,” Jean said, stopping on his heels to look at me. “I love it.”

“Ha, what?”

“You’re right!” he exclaimed suddenly, clutching one of the sleeves of my hoodie. “They’ve pulled off these songs a hundred times over before, and this time is no different!”

“Exactly…” I said, freeing my arm from his grip.

“Good advice, Marco,” he smiled.

“Thanks,” I replied, my face noticeably warm against the cool air around me.

“Also,” Jean continued, facing me, “I hope I wasn’t being too pushy earlier.”

“Of course not,” I said with a grin. Though to be honest, he was being quite persistent in his efforts, not that it bothered me that much. “I needed a night out, anyway.”

Jean nodded, his face lit with a large smile. “I didn’t want to go alone, either, and I don’t have many friends here, so….” His voice trailed off as we came to an intersection. Reaching out, he pressed the button for the signal a few times.

“I understand that,” I chuckled. “When I first moved here, it was difficult making friends; most of the people my age either hang out on campus or at bars and clubs around downtown, and since I’m not a student or really into the party scene,” I say, looking around as we begin to cross the street, “I really only hang out with my co-workers.”

“Like that other girl who was working there the other day?”

“Yeah, she’s insane,” I laughed. “But she took the time to work me into her group of friends, which was nice. A little out of character for her, but nice.”

“You two dating?”

“What?” I stammered, looking over at Jean with a confused look. “No, of course not, she has a girlfriend.” I started laughing then, covering my mouth with the sleeve of my hoodie.

“Well, that settles that,” Jean chuckles. “Although she could bat for both teams.”

“I highly doubt that,” I added, shaking my head.

“Anyway, here we are,” Jean said, pointing to a small, dimly lit bar just off to my right. Slipping in front of me, Jean opened the door and gestured for me to step in.

“Thanks,” I nodded. Inside, a crowd of maybe twenty people were gathered around tables, sitting and standing in front of a small, simple stage.

“Cover’s seven dollars,” a deep voice said from next to me. I jumped and turned to face a tall, rather built young man with blonde hair standing by the door.

“I got it,” Jean said, reaching into his wallet and pulling out some cash.

“I.D. too,” he said, looking at me.

I chuckled nervously and pulled out my wallet, showing him my driver’s license. The man nodded and smiled, waving me inside, Jean on my heels.

“Why didn’t he ask for your I.D.?” I asked.

“He knows me,” Jean smirked. “You want a drink?”

“If you’re buying,” I answered as he led me over to the bar. The music playing softly in the background made the place feel more like a lounge than a club, if anything. And, although I didn’t admit it at the time, Jean was right: this place was definitely more my style.

“Danni,” Jean said to the bartender, “make my friend Marco here whatever he wants and put it on my tab, okay?”

“Sure thing, sweetie,” she smiled, turning to me. “What’ll you have?”

“Uh, rum and Coke please.”

“Ah, that’s so boring!” Jean lamented. “Do you like cinnamon?”

“Yeah.”

“Ever had Fireball?”

“I don’t think so…?”

“Give’m a Fireball and Coke, Danni.”

With a sly giggle, the bartender nodded and prepared me my drink and handed it to me. I could smell the cinnamon as I brought the glass to my lips, and when I took a sip I smiled.

“Wow, that’s really good.”

“Tastes like candy, doesn’t it?” Jean asked, patting me on the shoulders. “Okay, Marco, you hang tight, take a seat anywhere you like, and I’m gonna go, uh, chat with my friend before he goes on.”

“Okay,” I said. As he rushed away, I could’ve sworn I saw him wink at me, but then again it was probably just the dim lighting of the room and the flickering from the shifting lights near the stage.

I nursed my drink for a few moments before heading over to a small table near the back. It was a small setup, so I figured Jean wouldn’t mind if we were a little further away.

My fingers tapped on the sides of the glass as a waited. _“Where is he?”_ I thought, pulling out my phone to check the time. _“They start in like two minutes.”_

“All right, ladies and gentleman,” a possibly middle-aged man said as he gathered everyone’s attention. “Tonight, we’ve got a new local band trying to make its way in the big bad world of music. Let the record stand,” he said, adding some emphasis to his last few words, “that this soon-to-be-famous musical talent got its start right here in your very own Blue’s Bar.”

Light applause filled the room as the lights dimmed and the band members shuffled onto the stage.

_“Okay, what’s taking him? They’re starting!”_

When the lights came on and the four members were visible, I fell back into my seat, shaking my head from side to side. There, seated behind a shining black and chrome drum set, was Jean.

“Evening, everyone!” he said, clearing his throat and adjusting the microphone in front of him. “Thanks for coming out! We are Rrrrrrritmo!” he exclaimed, his tongue trilling. The room was silent for a moment and he cleared his throat again. “Anyway, we hope you love our sound as much as we do!”

My eyes were glued to Jean as he counted off the beat for the first song. A cymbal crashed; someone was snapping their fingers to the beat; then suddenly, the music roared to life.

“Holy crap,” I said, standing up to move a little closer to the stage. People began to move in time with the beat, a few had already started dancing. The sound was certainly infectious, but—I’m not gonna lie—it was the rhythm that had stolen my affections.

Jean’s hands danced without the slightest bit of effort across the drums and symbols, his feet tapping an array of pedals below. In the bright light that illuminated the stage, I could see his wide smile gleaming on a sweat-streaked face, eyes watching every move his hands made.

And before I knew it, the first song had ended.

And there was Jean, his chest heaving as he panted behind the drum set, staring not at the audience that roared out a triumphant applause, but at me and my awe-struck face.

And that time, he most certainly did wink at me.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Part II will be up within the next couple of days.


End file.
